


The Ghastly Harvest

by oxymoronic



Category: Jonathan Strange & Mr. Norrell - Susanna Clarke
Genre: Established Relationship, M/M, One Shot, Temporary Character Death, War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-16
Updated: 2015-06-16
Packaged: 2018-04-04 14:51:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,469
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4141896
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oxymoronic/pseuds/oxymoronic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Following the battle of Waterloo, Childermass - however briefly - joins the fallen.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Ghastly Harvest

**Author's Note:**

  * For [StarlingGirl](https://archiveofourown.org/users/StarlingGirl/gifts).



> this was, again, a brief flurry of writing practice for StarlingGirl as I work on something longer (which was giving me plot headaches). apologies for it being a bit unpolished, I'm not happy with it at all, but thought the fandom needed at least a little more to get its teeth into. this assumes a brief canon divergence in imagining that Childermass (for whatever reason) went with Strange to Brussels, and thus was present during Waterloo. 
> 
> title taken from the poem _[The Field of Waterloo](http://www.online-literature.com/walter_scott/2563/) _ by Scott:
> 
>      Heroes before each fatal sweep  
>  Fell thick as ripened grain;  
>  And ere the darkening of the day,  
>  Piled high as autumn shocks, there lay  
>  The ghastly harvest of the fray,  
>  The corpses of the slain.

It occurred to Strange upon his arrival at the tent that its stillness and silence were an ill omen indeed. Elsewhere the camp still held that chaotic frenzy brought on by the aftermath of battle: buildings belching up hot sparking smoke into the blackening sky; mud thrown up about them churned in part with blood and gore and treacherous underfoot; a dozen men at every side frantic with their varied occupations, be it butchery or wood-chopping or fire-dousing or dying.

Here there was no one – save Strange, the boy who brought him, and Childermass. He lay quite unmoving on the workman’s table, and the ground about him was dark with blood, the air thick and wet and soaked with the smell of it.

Strange asked the boy why the surgeon had not been sent for, and demanded he run and fetch him instantly.

“He’s been, sir,” said the boy.

Strange did not reply. The boy shifted uneasily on his feet. “Beggin’ y’r pardon, sir,” he said. “But I oughtn’t hang about.”

The boy received no answer from Mr Strange. Presently he deemed the hiding from his master for his indolence to be a far greater and more immediate fear than a magician’s thoughtless curse, and abandoned him to the dead-man’s tent and the hazy chatter of the rain.

Strange was a man of some learning, and had in his possession several fine and detailed books of anatomy – though he had always known he lacked the temperament for doctoring, and had never made any serious attempt to include it in his list of feasible professions. That, however, the contents of Childermass’s torso were in no way correctly arranged was a conclusion rapidly reached without a single consultation of any book-learning. This understanding left him quite unable to advance further than the entrance-way for some time, until at length he seemed to find within himself some scant composure and hesitantly approached the bloodied bench.

There was no ease to Childermass’s breath; indeed it came with a heavy wetness Strange had come to recognise and dread. He stirred a little on Strange’s advent, and handed him a crooked smile upon his recognition.

“I am sorry for it, sir,” said Childermass.

“None of that,” answered Strange shortly. Beside the workman’s table a battered little stool black and grimy with unknown stains had toppled on its side, and having righted it once more Strange sat upon it. It put their heads of a height, and Strange seemed to see at last the pallor of Childermass’s face and the dullness of his eye.

“John,” said Strange quietly.

“None of that,” echoed Childermass in a murmur, smiling still. Strange took his hand. “You are well?”

“Perfectly,” answered Strange. “I was not – I was at – ”

Childermass hushed him, and said that he was glad of it; that the day had passed and nothing could be done for it. “Have no fear,” said Childermass. “I will best the devil at cards – Lord knows I have been practicing.”

“I would not have it so,” said Strange. Though Strange had many faults, he was by no means a man of no emotion, and his voice shook exceedingly as he spoke. “ _John_. I would not – ”

“Enough,” Childermass chided quietly, though the bubbled word was wet with blood and Strange could hardly hear it. Strange did not answer; instead he brought Childermass’s hand up to his face and pressed his mouth against it. This gave Childermass further cause to smile, but he did not speak again.

The rest did not come easy. Though Childermass had long since resigned himself to death, his body did not accord it, and fought most bitterly to have him fetch in each bloodied breath for near an hour after. Then, at last, with an air of great relief, Childermass fell silent. 

Strange thus thought himself alone, and did not hesitate to let his grief have claim of him, for the day had caused him pain enough before the errand-boy had seen fit to fetch him hither. But there was in truth a third man stood there inside the tent, tall and pale and clad all in black, who had caught Childermass’s soul in a tiny silver bottle upon a chain as his body had relinquished it - for he himself had long since had the claim of it. Though he now made himself known to Strange, the magician did not seem to find it peculiar that he had joined them; indeed he took a kerchief from him without question, and used it briefly to cover his distress. 

“Was he your servant?” asked the man.

“Not mine,” replied Strange. He attempted then to speak a little further; but he seemed quite unable to explain the nature of their association, and fell into a silence from which he did not swiftly recover. “Forgive me, sir,” Strange said at length. “I fear I may not be much company.”

“I do admit it comes as no small surprize to see you so affected,” said the man. His voice gave Strange some brief pause for thought, for it seemed at once alien and familiar, and he could not place the like of it; but principally this remark drove Strange to find some words in Childermass’s defence, and he thus added briefly that he considered him to be - to have been - the best of men and, indeed, a most dearly valued friend.

They fell to silence once again. It seemed then to Strange, struggling vainly with his misery, to be a very good thing to find and kill most cruelly every Frenchman he had ever met; to bend backwards the passage of time and snatch them both from the thick of war and into safety; to travel at once to Hell and rip back Childermass’s soul from the devil himself –

“I must confess we have grown fond of him together, you and I,” said the man thoughtfully, though Strange, so occupied with his own despair, paid him no attention. He drew a little silver bottle out from about his person and contemplated it at length, a great frown cleaving through his brow. “Perhaps, then – ”

Strange at that moment rose abruptly to his feet. There was now about him curled a magic thick with malice, for his sorrow and his fury drove him full further into a strength he could not yet control, into a form he could not yet imagine –

“Enough,” said the man, and tapped Strange once upon his brow. He fell at once quiescent to the ground.

The man passed then his attention to Childermass still laid out dead upon the table, and after a cursory treatment of the ragged flesh about his chest he took his little silver bottle and poured out its contents upon Childermass’s head. He waited for some time to check the efficacy of his work; and then thus satisfied, John Uskglass – for it was he – left the two magicians sleeping.

Presently a second errand-boy came to find the gentleman,1 and was most astonished to discover Strange being roused from sleep by a man who had been left for dead hardly half an hour hence. The great accomplishment of Childermass’s revival was, of course, then attributed to Mr Strange, but the magician himself could make no sense of it – nor indeed had he any memory of what magic he might have attempted to achieve it. This was indeed most vexing to the generals, who had briefly thought themselves in possession of a man who could ensure that they never need write another letter to a grieving widow again. 

But Strange was not to be found to hear their scolding; for from almost the moment of their discovery both he and Childermass had vanished, and no amount of soldiers searching no amount of tents would ever find them. They were by now many leagues hence, deep in Faerie, and neither had the mind to return homewards yet. Strange had no further business with war; and Childermass none in England. There they could stay (if in brief) together, and thus for a time live free from fear of any further sorrow coming unsolicited upon them.

 

 

* * *

1 The first had become sore afraid that Mr Strange might decide to turn him into some dreadful form for abandoning him so readily, and had made it his purpose to avoid attending Strange again at any cost. He was by no means the only servant whom Strange frightened away by some brief flurry of rage or mad action, though it should be said in Mr Strange’s defence that – quite unlike his father – none of his attendants ever suffered any physical imposition at his hand. Any fear or offence on their part was by no means Strange’s intention, and he would have become quite appalled and repentant on learning of any such perceived transgression.


End file.
